When They Call You
by LuckyLadybug
Summary: Something has left Kinkan a deserted town. Now Ahiru and Autor, the only ones left, must find out where the people were taken and how to restore them. In the process, they may find that nothing is as it seems and one thought dead is actually alive.
1. It Started Out As a Feeling

**Princess Tutu**

**When They Call You**

**By Lucky_Ladybug**

**Notes: The characters are not mine and the story is! Ever since seeing an amazing AMV on YouTube by FishesGoPook, I've wanted to write a Tutu fic using _The Call_ by Regina Spektor as the image song. While writing this, I realized the song would fit this story's plot very well. It will deal a lot with Stories and books and touch a bit on fairytales. Something towards the end of this chapter will likely raise more than a few eyebrows, but never fear; Fakir/Ahiru is the pairing of this fic, if it has a pairing at all. It features a sentient Story as the enemy, and is post-series, but it takes place in a different timeline from my main fics . . . or does it? Many thanks to Northeasternwind, and to everyone who will provide plot help before this is over!**

**Chapter One**

**It Started Out as a Feeling**

The Bavarian town of Kinkan had, in the past, always been an energetic center of activity. Even when it and all of the residents had been under the spell of Drosselmeyer's Story, life had gone about as usual—at least, as usual as anyone knew it to be. The anthropomorphic animals and other oddities had been perfectly normal to their manipulated minds. Humans and animals alike had attended school, gone to work, married, and raised families.

At the end of Drosselmeyer's Story, all had returned to normal. And, without their memories of taking part in the Story at all, the people still went about their lives as usual—at least, as usual as they remembered.

But now it was different. There was nothing usual in what had been happening to the town over the past weeks, and especially not in what had happened today. Today was eerily overcast and gray, matching the feeling that hung over Kinkan and permeated every street and every building.

A little yellow duck, her feathers streaked with red, stumbled up the street that led to the town square. At each business and home she gave a desperate quack, seeking someone, anyone, to answer her cries. But at each location it was always the same—there was no one to reply her.

Kinkan was a dead town.

The air was still. There was no laughter, no gossip or casual conversation, no sellers or waiters or waitresses trying to help customers decide what to buy or eat.

The pizza shop, when the duck passed it, was vacant. The chairs were still positioned at the tables, some pushed in, some ajar or pulled back, as if people had been there. Yet there was no one. Several plates still bore slices of pizza in varying states of being devoured.

Children were absent from the streets, where they usually played in lieu of sidewalks and yards. Skateboards and sticks and even jumpropes had been left lying in the road and next to homes, their owners never to return and claim them.

A slight sound behind her caused the duck to perk up, the feathers along her back standing on end from her surprise. She whirled, hoping against hope for a person or even an animal.

Instead there was nothing at first. Then a crumpled and torn piece of paper danced into view, set adrift by a faint breeze. The wind only lasted a moment; the forgotten sheet soon sailed to the ground, as lifeless as the rest of the town.

The duck stared at it. The hope she had been fighting to cultivate diminished as she turned away. Up ahead was the square; she could vaguely see that the fountain in front of the church was on, the water spilling into the bowls that had been crafted who knew how long ago. Of course, the church would be abandoned now, as it had been when Drosselmeyer had used the clock tower to operate his oppressive machine, but it was far more unsettling now that the entire town was abandoned.

Where had everyone gone? What had Fakir's out-of-control Story done with them?

The duck waddled forward, pushing herself to go faster despite the pain from her injuries. She had awakened lying on the academy lawn, so far away from where battle had been given to the vicious Story. And her only living friend was nowhere to be found. She had been looking for him ever since she had found herself in this nightmare, to no avail. Had he vanished too? Was she the only one left?

"Quack," she whispered. _I wish you were here, Fakir. You always knew what to do. You always made me strong. But now I . . . I don't know what to do at all!_

People had been disappearing with increasing volume for weeks. But only now, after the Story had been—she thought—ended, all the rest of the town's population were gone. And there was no way of knowing where they had been taken.

_Everything looks so hopeless,_ she thought to herself as she stumbled ahead. _It's not like when we ended Drosselmeyer's Story and everything went back the way it should be. Now it's worse than ever!_

But no, she could not give up altogether, especially not when her friend was still missing and could be here somewhere. They had both fought the Story, and if she was here, shouldn't he be also?

As she drew near to the church, she turned her attention to the fountain. Something felt wrong there, moreso than anywhere else in the town. She swallowed hard, pressing forward despite the warning bells going off in her head. Was the Story still there? Would she see it lurking around the back of the fountain, a horrific, cruel mirror of its writer?

Her heart ached at the thought. Wasn't it crushing enough that Fakir was gone, without having to see a merciless doppelganger in his image?

She took a deep breath. No matter what was there, she had to see. She had to know.

But her heart nearly stopped when she carefully, cautiously, walked around the stone sculpture.

"_Quack!"_ she cried out in sheer horror.

It was what she had feared, what she had hoped and prayed and pleaded would not be true. Her only friend and companion for months was laying mostly on his stomach, his hair a mess and his eyes closed. He was completely still.

"Quack!" she wailed. "Quack quack quack!" _Wake up! Please!_

But there was no reply. The little duck moved closer, tears glistening in her blue eyes. "Quack," she whispered.

He could still be alive, just deeply unconscious. Normally she would never get so near to him, but she had to now. Waddling next to him, she nudged his hand with her head.

"Quack!" she begged again.

Nothing.

Now she drew right up next to his face. He was not breathing; she could not feel any air against her small body. And he did not show any indication of his ever-present bird allergies. That, perhaps more than the lack of breath, said to her that he was gone.

"Quack," she whispered.

This was too much like what she had already experienced. Fakir had been the first casualty of the cruel Story. He had fought valiantly to take it down, and he had—but his life had been the price. She still remembered his weakened, bleeding body sprawled in the street.

She had climbed onto his chest, begging him to hang on, that he _had_ to hang on, while he had gasped and choked his final breaths. She was an idiot, he had said with a shaking smirk. Sometimes hanging on just wasn't possible.

Even though she was a duck and could no longer speak any human language, sometimes he had still understood what her quacks meant.

He had wanted her to promise that she would not spend the rest of her life mourning him; he wanted her to run and play and swim and enjoy life, just as she had before. She had buried her face against his hand, not wanting to make such a promise, not able to bear imagining life without him in it. And before she had been able to even give a sorrowful quack in response, his hand had grown heavy and limp.

She remembered how she had screamed in anguish, how she had struggled out from under his hand and had nudged it repeatedly, trying in vain to get some reaction. Autor had performed artificial respiration and CPR on their dear friend, but it had been no use.

Starting that bleak night, Autor had taken her in and cared for her in spite of his allergies. It had not been like it had been with Fakir, of course; with him she had been able to snuggle close each night or watch over his shoulder as he wrote. With Autor, they had needed to keep their distance from each other. He had never been able to touch her or pick her up, as Fakir had done. But though it had been so different, and they had both been grieving over Fakir, gradually they had started to heal and make a life for themselves together.

Until the Story that had killed Fakir had risen up against the entire town. They had thought Fakir had destroyed it, but they had clearly been wrong, and that had nearly been the world's undoing. As it was, Kinkan had clearly paid the price for stopping it. And Autor in specific had been the lightning rod channeling the power necessary to stop the Story's spread.

She nudged Autor's arm one final time in vain. With a sorrowful moan she struggled to climb onto his back and up by his shoulder. For a long moment she gazed at the boy who had cared for her so faithfully after Fakir's tragic demise. Then, trembling, she leaned forward and pressed her beak against his cheek.

_Goodbye, Autor,_ she said silently. _Goodbye._

She did not even know what to do now. She felt so numb in her horror and despair. Maybe later she could try to leave the town and see if other people were still around. After all, surely the whole world hadn't vanished, save her and him only?

Swallowing hard, she closed her eyes. Several tears slipped free, trailing down her feathery face.

But not five minutes passed after the sorrowful kiss when a tingling sensation swept through her body. She gasped, her eyes opening wide as her very being glowed. Then she was tumbling off of Autor's corpse and to the stone ground as she quacked in shocked alarm.

Then it was over. Cautiously she opened an eye. She was sprawled on the ground next to her friend, yet strangely he did not seem as large as he had to her duck eyes. Now she was viewing him almost as if . . . as if . . .

She stared down at herself, shaking. There were no feathers, no wings. Instead there was skin and there were hands, fingers. She was not a duck. She was a human girl! Thankfully clothed—but she barely noticed that fact at the moment.

"How?" she exclaimed. Her voice, which sounded foreign to her after all this time, was loud in the dead town.

She pushed herself up, wincing in pain as she knelt on the cold street. Being turned human had not made her injuries go away. Not that she had really thought it would. She glanced over her shoulder. Blood was showing through the white material of her turtleneck, but the cuts were hopefully not deep. Since they had not really slowed her down very much as a duck, surely they were not serious.

She frowned. She could not even treat them anyway when they were on her back. At least, not very well.

She looked back to Autor. Even though she was human, she could not try to revive him the way he had tried to revive Fakir. She did not know the technique. And besides, he had been here so long like this. How could she possibly bring him back? Autor had struggled to resuscitate Fakir almost immediately after he had died and it had not worked.

"I'm so sorry," she quavered, tears spilling from her eyes as she reached out for his hand. "I couldn't save you, Autor. I couldn't save you any more than we could save Fakir." Her own hand shook as she felt around for a pulse. That was the only thing she did know how to do, yet it really seemed pointless when she knew he was not breathing.

But without warning, Autor's hand twitched under hers. She jumped a mile, staring at it. No, it could not be. He was gone; she was all alone. She had imagined it.

He groaned, drawing her hand away from her. She could only watch in stunned disbelief as he pushed himself onto his back. He lay for a moment, seemingly gathering his strength, before his eyes fluttered open. He blinked several times, confused. "Ahiru?" he rasped. "Has my eyesight degraded this much?"

She snapped to. Maybe it was _her_ eyes that were failing. This could not be real.

"Autor?" she whispered shakily, afraid to accept the miracle. She leaned over him, her heart pounding so fast with anxiety that he surely must be able to hear it.

He stared up at her, his glazed eyes clearing and widening in awe. "You . . . you're human," he breathed. With a shaking hand he reached up, touching her cheek as though to assure himself this was not a hallucination.

Ahiru's own hand flew up and over his. "Autor," she said again. "Autor! _Autor!_" Joyous tears came to her eyes. She clutched his hand, feeling the warmth and the life. Her mind was spinning. "You're alive!" Letting go of his hand she threw her arms around him, hugging him close to her. "No, your eyes are just fine! Well, I mean, they're not _worse._ I mean, yes—I'm human!"

Still only semi-conscious, Autor gave a start as she enveloped him in her embrace. "How?" he wondered, echoing Ahiru's own question. "What happened?"

"I don't know," Ahiru exclaimed. "I was looking all over for you and I found you laying here so . . . so still! I tried and tried to wake you up, but you . . . you just couldn't. And I was so upset that I climbed on your shoulder and kissed you goodbye and then I was all glowy and I turned into a girl . . . !" But then she trailed off in mortification, her cheeks burning red.

Autor was stunned. "You did what?" he exclaimed.

Ahiru looked away now. "I'm sorry," she mumbled. "I know I shouldn't have got so close. But I was trying to see if you were alive, and when you weren't I . . ." A tear slipped from her eye.

Autor sat up, gripping Ahiru's upper arms. "No!" he said. "I think I understand. You saved my life, Ahiru. And I wonder if that's what changed you back, as well."

Ahiru started and looked to him in surprise. His brown eyes were gleaming with excitement.

"You . . . you mean when I kissed you I . . ."

"This town is still being controlled by Stories and fairytales," Autor breathed. "Your true love revived me and . . ." Now he was the one to trail off and turn red. When he looked to Ahiru, she was flaming as well.

"Ahiru?" he said cautiously, but then did not know how to continue.

Ahiru bit her lip. She knew what he was trying to ask. "I'm not sure how I feel about you," she said softly. "When I finally realized I'd fallen in love with Fakir, I didn't think I could ever love anyone else like that, and I figured everything was hopeless anyway because I was a duck, and . . ." She stared at the boy who had become her closest friend other than Fakir.

"I think," she said slowly, "any kind of love can be true love, can't it? I mean, it shouldn't have to just be romantic or something. Friends and family have true love too, don't they?"

Autor considered that, then gave a slow nod. "Yes, that's true," he said. "Romantic love is far too overstated."

But they both felt awkward. And as they stared at each other, all alone in this strange new world, they could not help but wonder exactly what it was they did feel for each other. Were the feelings they had thought they carried their true feelings? Or was there something else?

Ahiru hesitated, searching Autor's eyes for the answer. Finding none, and seeing his own confusion, she acted on impulse. She leaned in, touching her lips to his. Stunned, he let her kiss him for a moment, savoring the new experience. Then he drew her closer, returning it. They were both young and unsure, confused by the rush of emotions they were feeling. But then, as if fully realizing what they were doing, they suddenly stiffened and pulled away from each other.

"I'm so sorry!" Ahiru exclaimed. "I don't know why I did that. I . . ."

Autor was still red. He pushed up his glasses with a shaking finger. "It's alright," he said. "Maybe I shouldn't have returned it, but . . ."

Ahiru slowly raised her eyes to meet his. "I . . . it all felt wrong," she stammered. "I don't love you that way. I'm sure I don't."

"Yes," Autor agreed, looking relieved. "When I think of you, there's a much more familial association than anything else. Though I'm not sure why I'm so convinced of that," he muttered, only loud enough for him to hear.

Ahiru managed a weak smile. "Same here," she said.

But then something occurred to her that she had not thought of in the midst of their reunion. Abruptly the tears were back, only now they were not joyous. Her smile disappeared.

Autor looked at her in surprise. "What is it?" he asked.

Her face crumpled. "If Kinkan is still being controlled by Stories and it could have worked, why . . ." Her shoulders shook as a sob choked free. "Why didn't true love save Fakir? Why couldn't we save him?"

Autor's heart twisted. "I don't know," he said, feeling his voice grow husky. He drew the girl into a gentle embrace. She melted into his arms, hugging him close as she buried her face in his shoulder.

Nearby, the wind picked up the same lone piece of paper, sending it cartwheeling and somersaulting past them. Other than the two frightened and confused teenagers, it was the only sign of life.

xxxx

He was lying on his back, gazing at the sky high above his head. It looked peaceful as always; the bright blue contrasted with the white clouds that were lazily making their way towards the horizon. But something seemed wrong, too—as it always did. There was something fake, contrived, about this world. It was not the afterlife; somehow he was sure of that. On the other hand, he did not know _what_ it was, and that was driving him out of his mind.

He pushed himself upright, gazing into the clouds. She was out there somewhere. He knew that. What he did not know was how to reach her. If he concentrated hard enough, at times he could sense her presence, just vaguely somewhere beyond the sky.

Closing his eyes, he allowed the gentle breeze to wash over him. He reached out with his heart and soul, seeking that of the little duck who had endeared herself to him so deeply.

There, he felt her. Just for a brief moment, but she was there. And she was in pain.

His eyes flew open. He reached up at the sky with his hand, desperate to find her.

"Ahiru!" he cried. _"Ahiru!"_

But as always, his voice echoed and was not heard by anyone other than himself.

**I know it looks weird, but bear with me? I can't guarantee how much I'll update this fic, but the past will be better explained through flashbacks, dreams, and conversations in future chapters.**


	2. A Quiet Thought

**Notes: I have not forgotten this fic! And I've decided that Autor and Ahiru's confusion over what happened last chapter should continue for a while. That seems the most realistic under the circumstances. But I still intend for the only possible romantic pairing to be Fakir/Ahiru!**

**Chapter Two**

**A Quiet Thought**

Autor was quiet as they walked through the deserted town towards his—really _their_—house. He glanced at the buildings and houses they passed, disturbed by what he saw—and what he did not see. The half-eaten food and abandoned toys particularly concerned him. He looked away, frowning deeply.

It was most certainly a bewildering question; what could the Story have done to every one of the people, let alone so quickly? And how would they be brought back, if it were possible to do so? Autor knew he had Story-Spinning power through the medium of music; it was how he had attempted to fight Fakir's rogue Story. Could that ability also bring the people back? It really depended on where they had gone. But under most circumstances, he believed, he should be able to return them.

Ahiru was uncomfortable with the boy's silence. She sneaked a glance up at him, her cheeks burning red. Was he thinking about the disappearing town . . . or what she had done a few minutes ago? She looked away again, staring at the ground.

Why on earth had she _kissed_ him? She had not even really been thinking about the implications or long-term effects of such a thing. She had only wanted to figure out why her other kiss had revived him and turned her human again. But she had just got through saying that any kind of love should be true love, not just romantic love. So why had she turned around and tried to figure out if she had those kinds of feelings for him?

Shouldn't she already know, anyway? Autor was her dear friend, the one who had looked after her since Fakir's death. And Fakir was the one whom she had finally realized she carried romantic feelings for.

But Fakir was dead. . . .

She frowned deeper. She absolutely did not want to even consider that she could have feelings for Autor if they might only be a product of her loneliness and sorrow over Fakir. She would not hurt Autor like that. He had been so good to her!

Even though they had met and talked several times when he had played the piano for the ballet students, and he had helped her out of a terrible predicament after she had turned into a duck and some boys had stolen her clothes, he had not wanted to be friends with her. And still he had taken her in after Fakir's death, in spite of his bird allergies. They had grown very close during that time, though she had not been able to talk with him as she could now. Before the battle against the Story, he had admitted that he had thought of her as a friend for a long time.

Why was she even having this conversation with herself? She had already said to Autor that the kiss had felt all wrong and that she was sure she did not care about him in a romantic way. And here she was still worrying about it!

"I'm sorry."

She started. "Huh?" She blinked up at Autor. "What are you talking about?"

Autor was blushing deeply. "When you . . . kissed me, I shouldn't have returned it."

Ahiru was stunned. So he had been thinking about that, but about what he had done, not her?

"I've never been kissed in that . . . way before. But I've wondered what it would be like." Autor pushed up his glasses, looking and sounding awkward. "When you suddenly broached the subject, I reacted half out of impulse."

Ahiru bit her lip. "'Impulse'?" she said slowly. "So then . . . neither of us actually meant anything by it. . . ."

Autor flushed harder. "I don't know," he said, glancing away. "I wondered why your previous kiss had helped us both, but . . ."

He trailed off. He had never even expected to make friends with Ahiru. And now he was wondering whether he might love her in a different way than that?

Because of Rue, he had always oddly sympathized with Fakir in his feelings over Ahiru. Fakir had believed nothing could happen between them, both because of Ahiru's love for Mytho and because she had to live out the rest of her life as what she had been born to be, a duck. Autor had seen that Ahiru had come to turn her affections to Fakir; it had been obvious in her longing eyes when she had looked at him. But the problem of her being a duck had remained.

Now Fakir was dead and Ahiru was human and with Autor and she had kissed him. . . . And he had been so forward as to return it, when he had really known that there was nothing like that between them! . . .

Or had he really known? Surely part of him had not . . . hoped otherwise.

Heaven forbid! He still thought fondly of Rue and longed for them to be together, though he knew it could not be. And Ahiru loved Fakir. They were just lonely because they could not have their actual loves. Any relationship between them would be a fraud.

Would it really? If Ahiru could come to realize it was Fakir, not Mytho, whom she was in love with, what if over time she had come to feel the same about Autor?

It was not really impossible that he could feel the same about her. Certainly she was not graceful like Rue, nor did she possess Rue's seriousness and level of maturity, but she did have a unique beauty all her own. And she was more mature than most of the female population with whom Autor had become acquainted, albeit when she lost her temper she could be dreadfully immature.

He frowned. No, he should not even think such thoughts. Even though Fakir was dead, it would still feel like Autor was betraying him to so much as consider being romantically involved with Ahiru. Surely she felt the same, if the idea had also crossed her mind.

He glanced at her out of the corner of his eye. She was staring at the ground as she walked, still looking uncomfortable and red. Clearly this little incident between them could not resolved by simply saying it felt wrong.

And had it even felt wrong because they truly had different feelings for each other . . . or because it was something so frightening and new and there was also the fear of betraying Fakir were they to act further?

"Um . . . we're here."

He started at Ahiru's voice. He really was not paying attention today. She had been more attentive than him; she had stopped near the door of the house, while he had almost walked past. His cheeks burning, he went over and unlocked the door.

"Go in," he directed.

Ahiru shuffled inside, Autor following swiftly behind her and pulling the door shut after them. "Get the bandages out of the medicine cabinet in the bathroom," he said as he locked the door. "I'll be there in a moment."

Idly he wondered what he was trying to keep them safe from. There was no one in the town who might barge in. But he preferred to keep the door locked anyway.

"Okay."

He heard the sound of Ahiru's footsteps on the wooden floor of the study. But she had almost vanished from view into the living room before the next disconcerting thought hit him.

Exactly _how_ was he going to take care of the injuries on her back without causing them both further mortification? Especially if he had to wrap the gauze all the way around her torso to keep it secure?

He walked stiffly after her, reaching to loosen the cravat around his neck. No matter how embarrassing this might turn out to be, Ahiru's well-being was more important than a bit of discomfort.

"Have you found the bandages?" he called as he entered the hall.

"Yeah," Ahiru called back. "And the other first aid stuff."

"Good." Autor cleared his throat. "You'll need to remove your shirt."

"What?" Ahiru cried in shock.

"Your wounds are on your back," Autor explained in exasperation. "I can't treat them if you're wearing your shirt."

"Oh. Yeah, I guess that's true." Now Ahiru was all but mumbling.

"Hold it in front of yourself if you want," he said, stopping near the open bathroom door. "I won't look."

There was a pause. Then, _"Owww!"_

Autor jumped a mile. "What happened?" he demanded.

"It hurts to try to get it off," Ahiru moaned.

Autor's heart sank. He had not anticipated that problem, but if he had been thinking clearly he would have. He really had to get hold of himself.

"Don't try," he said. "You might aggravate the wounds and open them further."

"Then what are we going to do?" Ahiru exclaimed.

Autor thought quickly. "I'll roll your shirt up and you can hold it in place," he said. "We'll figure out what to do with it after I bind your injuries."

"Maybe I could just keep wearing it," Ahiru said as Autor came into the room. She was already facing away from him, so he quickly washed and dried his hands before drawing a deep breath and carefully beginning to roll up her shirt. When it was high enough she clutched it in place, her arms against her chest.

"It's stained with blood," Autor frowned.

Ahiru sighed. "Yeah, that's true," she mumbled. "But . . . I don't have anything else to wear."

"We can find something else," Autor said. "Meanwhile, you could wear something of mine."

Both of them went red at that idea. Autor's blazer, when he had loaned it to Ahiru out of necessity in the past, had dipped far too low for comfort. But there were other clothes he had that should work better, even though the sleeves would still be too long.

He sighed as he examined the gashes under the light. "They don't look deep," he reported, changing the subject.

"That's good, at least," Ahiru sighed.

At the feel of Autor's hands on her back, her cheeks went a deep crimson. But then she began to relax. His hands were skilled and gentle and smooth, the hands of someone who preferred research to outdoor activities.

Ahiru looked down. Even though Fakir's hands had felt more rough, they had been gentle too.

A moment later she flinched. "Ow!" she burst out. "That stings!"

Autor started. "I'm trying to go gently," he said. "I have to clean your wounds before doing anything else."

"I know," Ahiru said, "but . . ." She bit her lip to keep from exclaiming again. Instead she shut her eyes tightly and prayed for Autor to hurry and finish.

With care Autor brought the edges of the torn skin together before starting to bind them. Ahiru cringed inwardly but forced herself to hold still, not wanting to jar the delicate task.

After a few minutes Autor paused. Cautiously Ahiru opened an eye.

"Are you done?" she asked.

"No," Autor said awkwardly. "For the bandages to hold in place better, I'm going to need to bring some of them around."

"What?" Ahiru cried again, now in possibly more horror than before. Her arms pressed tighter against her chest.

Autor flamed red. "You can leave your arms where they are," he said. "Luckily, the wounds are low enough that I won't have to attempt . . ." He trailed off, preferring to leave that unsaid.

Ahiru blushed but relaxed. "Thank goodness," she said.

Autor wrapped the gauze around and taped it in place. Then with a sigh he stepped back. "Now I'm done," he said. "And we need to get you out of that shirt."

"How?" Ahiru wondered, looking over her shoulder to inspect the bandages.

"I could either cut it loose or take it over your head," Autor said. "Either way, will you be able to deal with the sleeves yourself?"

Ahiru nodded. "Yeah, I think so," she said.

"Good." After mulling over his options, Autor reached out and stretched the collar of the turtleneck, lifting it over Ahiru's head as she exclaimed in surprise. He stuffed the long braid through the opening, then let go as it swung free.

"I'll see if I can find something for you to wear," he said. Stepping away, he turned around and left the room, pulling the door mostly closed behind him.

Ahiru bit her lip, slowly sliding her arms out of the sleeves. She held the warm shirt close to her chest, not daring to turn in case Autor came back without warning.

She had never thought she would be human again at all, let alone like this. Everything was so different now. All the people were gone. Fakir was dead. She had been living in Autor's house. And that was opening up some very awkward situations now that she was not a duck.

_I wonder if you're seeing all of this where you are, Fakir,_ she thought. _Do you know how much Autor's helped me since you . . . since you've been gone? Do you know about the kiss?_

She looked down, feeling guilty now. What had she ever been thinking? The more time that passed, the worse her thoughtless action seemed to become to her. And it had not seemed to help in the end; she and Autor were still confused, maybe now even more than before.

"Ahiru!"

She gave a start, nearly quacking in surprise.

"Here's a shirt for you. I'll hang it on the doorknob." Autor leaned inside the bathroom. As Ahiru looked over her shoulder, he was placing a white shirt on the knob within her reach. Then he ducked out once more.

"Thank you," Ahiru said, blushing. Setting the old shirt on the sink's counter, she took Autor's and pulled it to her. It was a button-down shirt with the sleeves ruffled at the cuffs, not unlike the shirt that was part of the school uniform. She smiled weakly. Autor prided himself on being neat and organized. And he was quite fond of the school uniform. Probably all of his own clothes were similar.

Carefully she drew it around her back, savoring the cool feel of the material before slipping her arms through the sleeves. She buttoned it up, her fingers only barely visible peeking out through the ends. She pushed the sleeves up her arms as she turned to open the door.

Autor was standing with crossed arms in the hall, in case he was needed. He looked up when Ahiru appeared in the doorway, taking in her state—and from his expression, most likely thinking how terrible the shirt looked with casual shorts.

"How is it?" he asked.

"It fits better than your jacket did," Ahiru said, again with the weak smile. "Thanks so much."

Autor nodded. "How are you feeling?" he asked. "If you want, you can rest somewhere while I research what's happened in town."

"I'm okay," Ahiru said. She hurried on, "But if this has never happened before, how can you research it?"

"I can research other strange things and their solutions," Autor said. "From that information I might be able to piece together at least some things we could try. Unfortunately, it's the Bookmen who have most of that research. I never could get them to tell me about it, let alone to allow me to see it. But since they're probably gone too, we shouldn't have any trouble in that respect now."

"So you're going to the bookstore?" Ahiru cried, her eyes widening.

"That's the general idea," Autor said.

"I'm not staying here all alone," Ahiru said. She ran to his side, snatching his arm. "What if you disappear too? Or me? We need to stay together; we'll have a better chance that way."

Autor gazed at her desperate, shaking fingers clutching the material of his sleeve. "I agree," he said, "if you feel that you can leave."

"I don't feel that I can stay," Ahiru replied. "I'm coming with you!"

Autor nodded. "That's fine," he said. "Come then; we should go before it gets dark."

He looked at her as she released his arm and moved to follow him back up the hall. Somehow, for just a moment she seemed so forlorn and lost. And that upset, even angered, him. He wanted to see her happy. He wanted to protect her and oversee her happiness.

But he could tell even now that there was nothing romantic in how he felt. She was something else to him; she had to be. What puzzled him was that it seemed to be familial affection welling in his heart. Was that because of the time he had known her when she had been a girl? That had actually been a short time compared to how long he had known her as a duck.

And why on earth would he think of a duck as a sister?

For that matter, why would he even consider that he might have romantic feelings for her in her human form?

She blinked up at him in confusion. "What is it?" she asked.

"Nothing," he said, looking away as he pushed up his glasses.

He would have to shove aside all such thoughts. Right now there were more pressing matters that needed both of their attention.

xxxx

The more he wandered this strange place, the more he knew something was not right. And the more he said it to himself, the more frustrated he became.

Maybe it was the complete solitude. He had never met anyone else here. In fact, aside from the plant life, nothing else seemed to live here at all. And that was extremely unsettling.

Maybe it was how everything looked so peaceful. He could never get away from feeling that it was fake.

He had never felt peaceful here. Instead it was a strange, eerie restlessness that only increased the longer he was there or whenever he felt Ahiru's presence. He wanted to be with her, to go to her, but he could never leave. No matter how far he wandered, this world did not seem to end. There were not even any visible ways to get in. He had no remembrance of how he had found the entrance, if he ever had. He had only awakened here what seemed an eternity ago.

Where was Ahiru? Did she have anyone to keep her safe? Maybe she was still at the antique shop with Charon. Had she been able to move past her grief over him and go on with her life? Sometimes she seemed happy when he sensed her. Other times, such as a short while ago, it felt like her heart was breaking.

And that broke his heart too.

That was also part of the mystery. He still had a heart that could break. He had placed his hand over his chest more than once, feeling the throbbing of his heartbeat. Still unable to believe it, he repeatedly checked his pulse at various locations on his body. But it was always the same result—somehow, impossibly, he was alive.

That was also how he knew this could not be any kind of afterlife. But it only made him all the more edgy and anxious. Why couldn't he escape? Why couldn't he go home? What was keeping him here? _Who_ was keeping him here? Anyone at all?

"I know this can't be one of your sick games, Drosselmeyer," he growled to the silence around him, "but I wouldn't be surprised if you're watching. Too bad you won't say what really is going on. I know you won't; you'd say it'd spoil your fun."

And that only made him all the angrier. While he and Ahiru and who knew who else suffered, Drosselmeyer reveled in the tragedy.

And all he could do was helplessly wander in a never-ending world of un-paradise.

The only thing he had in his favor was that he was alive. He would cling to that, hoping and praying that somehow, someway he would find the way home—back to Charon and Mytho and Autor . . .

And her.

That was where he belonged. That was where he would be truly happy.

And no matter how long it took him to figure out the way, he was going back.


	3. A Quiet Word

**Notes: And here we start getting into some of the more intricate plot twists. The next chapter should plunge into the action.**

**Chapter Three**

**A Quiet Word**

The secondhand bookstore was dark and eerie, particularly with the oil lamp burning and no one present behind the counter or anywhere else in the shop. Ahiru shivered as she followed Autor inside. She had never been to this place before and she thoroughly hoped she would never be here again after today.

Autor seemed to have a specific purpose in mind. He walked forward and around to the back of the counter, then bent down to search through the various drawers and cubbyholes. Ahiru went over in all nervousness, watching the backdoor with a suspicious eye.

"Are we sure no one's here?" she quavered. "Maybe they're in the back. And I'm sure they won't like us going through their stuff."

Autor straightened. "I don't know why they would be spared any more than the other townspeople," he said. For that matter, however, he did not know why he and Ahiru had been spared. He crossed to the door and turned the knob, slowly easing the door open.

The backroom was filled with many more books and ladders to reach them. He could take in all of the room by standing in the doorway, and there was definitely no one present.

"This room was always off-limits," he said, the awe creeping into his voice. "Just look at everything they've been hiding from us! There must be something in some of these volumes that could help us."

Ahiru frowned, craning her neck upward as she came to join him. "But why would they hide all of these books?" she wondered. "They left Drosselmeyer's out for people to read."

"After tearing out the endings," Autor said. "And I've wondered if they only left his out because the Story had that much control over them. Maybe Drosselmeyer didn't care what they did with anything else, so the Story allowed them to keep these other volumes locked up."

"I guess that's possible," Ahiru said. "The Story did so many weird things. And now Fakir's did so many weird things," she mumbled.

Autor stepped inside and took the nearest book off the shelf. "I know who this man was!" he exclaimed.

Ahiru peered at the cover. "I've never heard of him," she said.

Autor opened the book, too excited to even smirk at her. "He was an ancestor of Drosselmeyer's," he said. "Another Story-Spinner." He turned the pages reverently, reading parts of the text. The book was a masterpiece. He could tell that just from the few snippets he glanced over. The plot was detailed and dark, the characters well-rounded and human.

"How many Story-Spinners were there?" Ahiru cried, not sure whether to be amazed or alarmed. "I thought Drosselmeyer was the only one everyone talked about."

"Drosselmeyer was the most amazing," Autor said, "at least as far as we know. But there were rumors that some of his predecessors accomplished incredible feats as well. There have been documented cases of Stories coming to life for centuries." He glanced at the shelves stretching high above them. "All of these books must be written by Story-Spinners!"

Ahiru nearly fell over as she stared at the tops of the bookcases. "We'll never be able to get through all of this!" she wailed.

"Look at the titles," Autor said. "We'll start by sorting through the ones that seem most likely to have useful information. Non-fiction would be a good place to start."

Ahiru scrunched up her face in a frown. "Maybe there's nothing non-fiction in here," she said.

Autor had already set the current book down—albeit reluctantly—and was looking over all the titles on the same shelf. "There might be," he said. "In the letters I've collected from Drosselmeyer and others, I've seen several mentions of a book about Story-Spinning. If any copies of it have survived, this would be a logical place to find them. The Bookmen would never want to let something like that get out."

Ahiru walked to a bookcase across from Autor and tilted her head to read the tomes' spines. "So . . . does it have a name or something?" she wondered.

"It was never referred to by name, only as 'the book'," Autor said.

Ahiru let out a big sigh. "That won't really help," she said.

"It might have something about Story-Spinning in the title," Autor said. As another book caught his eye he pulled it out enough to examine the cover, then replaced it.

"Okay," Ahiru said. "Yeah, I guess it probably would. Is there anything else I should be looking for too?"

"Anything that looks like a biography of a Story-Spinner," Autor said. "Or even better, their old journals."

Ahiru's eyes went wide. "I thought journals were supposed to be private!" she said, whirling to look back at him.

Autor pushed up his glasses. "These people have been dead for decades," he said with impatience. "Their journals fall into the hands of people who want to know more about their lives and thoughts. Or those who just want to seal them away," he added with a disapproving frown.

"I don't think I'd want anyone reading my journal, even a long time later," Ahiru mumbled.

Autor sighed. "A lot of people keep journals because they _want_ their thoughts preserved for posterity," he said. "But regardless, we need to find any that might be here."

Ahiru sighed too. "Okay, I'll look," she consented.

But the search was long and fruitless. Ahiru lost count of how much time she spent staring at the books' titles and pulling out the ones with the worn and faded bindings for a closer look. Eventually her eyes glazed over and she began to yawn. Not a good thing when she had decided to climb one of the ladders. And when she foolishly chanced to gaze downward, she realized all the more that she had made a very bad choice.

Autor had fallen silent some time ago, thoroughly involved in the search. He could not resist skimming through some of the books, since this was likely his only opportunity to see them. Ahiru had liked his excitement at first; it was endearing and so unlike his more aloof, quiet side. But now she was growing impatient and distressed and just wanted to leave. And Autor looked like he would never want to, even if they did not find any information here that would help them.

Still gripping the ladder, she looked to the shelf directly above her. There was a small black book, without any visible words on the binding, half-buried between two larger volumes. Could it possibly be of any help? She reached for it, hooking her forefinger on the top of the book and her other fingers and her thumb on the sides of the spine. But as she tried to pull, it resisted.

_Oh come on!_ she thought in frustration. _It's a little book. How hard can it be to get it out?_

She pulled harder. But even though her target moved forward, so did the books on either side of it. There was no choice but to try to push them back, and to do that, she had to let go of the ladder.

Again she looked down. It was so far to fall! How could she really let go? Yet on the other hand, how could she not? Maybe if she leaned forward and made sure her feet were securely on the rung. She wrapped her left arm around the top of the ladder for good measure, as well. As she pushed the other tomes back, she tugged at the small black book.

When it finally came free, she rocked back from the momentum. And from there it did not take much for her to lose her balance altogether. She could only give an alarmed cry as she pitched off the ladder, plummeting towards the floor at a frightening rate.

Autor looked up with a start. He gasped, setting his current book aside without really paying attention to what he was doing with it. It slipped off the shelf and onto the floor behind him, but he only heard the _thump_ somewhere in the back of his mind. He was already sprinting across the room, his arms outstretched to catch the falling girl.

She slammed into his embrace a moment later. And in his desperation to grab her in a way that would not aggravate her wounds, he then slammed onto the floor.

For a moment they lay where they were, dazed. Autor's glasses had slipped half-off his face. Ahiru was sprawled across Autor on her stomach, her head near his shoulder. Then, abruptly regaining her senses, she sprang upright.

"Oh my gosh, are you okay, Autor?" she gasped, kneeling next to him.

He blinked, focusing on her worried face. "Yes," he managed to say. "I'm fine." He pushed up his glasses. "What on earth happened?"

"I was trying to get this and I fell!" Ahiru exclaimed, holding out the black book. It had survived the descent, not looking any the worse for wear.

Autor sat up, immediately coming to attention. He took it from Ahiru with care, flipping it open to the first, yellowed page. His eyes went wide.

"What is it?" Ahiru exclaimed. But, not waiting for an answer, she leaned forward to look over his shoulder.

"Drosselmeyer's journal," Autor breathed, the reverential awe for the man's work obvious in his voice. Though he had long ago and painfully learned that Drosselmeyer himself was really not a good role model, he was still astounded by the feats Drosselmeyer had achieved. And the old part of him that had idolized and nearly worshiped Drosselmeyer could not help rising to the surface at this discovery.

Ahiru's mouth fell open. "Eh?" she cried. She moved closer, invading Autor's personal space. But he was so intent on poring over the new discovery that he did not even notice.

"He's talking about an incident where several people mysteriously vanished." Autor's gaze was traveling over the page, taking in every syllable of Drosselmeyer's professional script.

Ahiru tried in vain to find where he was reading. "Does he say anything else about it?" she wanted to know.

"He says that from his own studies, he's determined it's due to a glitch within the living Stories," Autor said. "And . . ." He gasped. "The people were later found inside a book."

"What?" Ahiru stared in shock and horror. "What do you mean they were inside a book? How could they get in a book? It's a bunch of ink and paper and stuff!"

Autor shook his head. "They weren't literally in the book itself; the book was just the window to that world," he said. "And apparently they couldn't be retrieved by writing them out of it. Drosselmeyer says that others had to go into that world after them."

"Did they all get out okay?" Ahiru cried.

Autor frowned. "Drosselmeyer says they got out, but they didn't make it unscathed." He turned the page. "Their . . . _souls_ were damaged." He stared at the page, perplexed. "He doesn't elaborate on what he means."

Ahiru swallowed hard. "Maybe it was really hard to get them out or something and it hurt really bad because they thought they wouldn't be able to do it," she said. "Does he say how they got in to save the others?"

"He only says something about accessing the portal to the other world," Autor said. "Maybe this is something he told more about in another journal. He acts like it isn't the first time he's mentioned it."

"The portal?" Ahiru rocked back, trying to think. "Where would that be? And what other world? He doesn't mean the gear world, does he?"

Autor mulled over that. "I suppose it's possible," he said. "Did that child ever tell you and Fakir more about that world?"

Ahiru shrugged. "Not really," she said. "Just that there were gears everywhere and they showed what was going on in the Story." Her eyes widened. "Oh! When she came with you from the gear world, she said Drosselmeyer had other Stories they watched too. And they could still see what was happening here in Kinkan; Drosselmeyer just couldn't cause trouble anymore because Fakir broke his writing machine."

Autor nodded. "When I was there, I was told it was a gap in time," he said. "I was shown scenes of the future as well as the present."

But here he hesitated, studying Ahiru in some confusion. Both of them clearly remembered Autor's descent into madness after having discovered his powers over music. Some part of him wanted to say that Ahiru had been human then, pleading with him to return to himself and later watching over him after he had wounded himself to stop his Story. Yet that was impossible; Ahiru had been a duck after the end of Drosselmeyer's Story, until this day.

So what were those other, vague memories? Could he have just felt Ahiru's soul reaching out to him in a human form?

But . . . she could not have watched over him as a duck. Animals like that would not be allowed in the hospital. And more importantly, he was allergic.

Ahiru tilted her head to the side. "What is it?" she asked, bewildered.

Autor sighed. "Nothing that can't wait," he said. If Ahiru had felt there was anything strange, she was not saying it. And there were more pressing matters at the moment—albeit he certainly intended to return to this mystery when there was an opportunity.

He looked back to the journal before she could protest. "Judging from the dates, this was the last record he kept," he said. "The last entry is dated days before his death."

"What does it say?" Ahiru exclaimed. "Anything that might help?"

Autor skimmed over it. "He talks about the machine he was building," he said. "He says he knows the Bookmen are watching him and intend to stop him, but he will have the last laugh and there's nothing they can do about it."

He stared in disbelief at the next section. "What's this?" he breathed.

"What?" Ahiru cried. Again she tried to find where he was reading, but the fancy script confused her. She was terrible at just printing words, to say nothing of writing and reading cursive.

"'The greatest of my achievements for this masterpiece is how I have linked the worlds,'" Autor read. "'Even if they manage to learn of what I have used, crafted from the wood of the fallen oak tree, they will not be able to do anything about it. The level of energy at the mouth of the portal is so great that even if my device is destroyed, the particles will remain. Passing between the realms will still be possible, at least for a while.'"

Ahiru gawked at the book as though it had sprouted horns. "What's he even talking about?" she moaned. "It's so vague!"

Autor read the passage again. "He built something from the wood of the oak tree," he mused. "We already know his puppet was made from its wood. What else could there have been?" He looked to Ahiru. "How did Drosselmeyer arrive when you and Fakir talked with him?"

Ahiru blinked. "Um . . . in a big, weird clock, I think," she said.

Autor straightened in triumph. "Of course!"

Ahiru started. "Of course what?" she wailed.

"Don't you see? The device that links the worlds is a clock," Autor said, both impatient and excited. "Since the oak tree itself personifies the link, its wood should make it possible for inter-dimensional travel. It makes perfect sense on so many levels; Drosselmeyer knew a lot about mechanics and even made some clocks in between writing his Stories."

Ahiru was surprised. "I didn't know that," she said. She straightened too. "Do you think the clock is still in the church tower?"

"Most likely," Autor said. "Even if the Bookmen solved the riddle, the Story would have swayed them to leave the church tower alone. And I doubt Fakir had any idea what it was when he dismantled the writing machine."

"I don't know," Ahiru said. "Maybe he remembered Drosselmeyer came in a clock and he broke it."

"But Drosselmeyer said the energy would remain even if that happened," Autor said. "Of course, he could have exaggerated, but we'll have to assume he did not."

He stood, clutching the book. "We should go there as soon as possible," he declared. "However, before we do, we should try to find some evidence that the townspeople have been taken into a Story just as those before them."

Ahiru leaped up as well. "How can we do that?" she exclaimed. "If we have to look in every book in town to see if they're in it, it'll take forever!"

Autor shook his head. "I doubt that," he said. "Fakir's wayward Story would enjoy taunting us and hiding them under our noses. Most likely, they're in a more well-known Story. That would leave out all of the volumes here."

"So . . . we should look in books that people know about?" Ahiru said slowly.

"Yes." Autor glanced longingly at the shelves of rare novels and other old treasures. Would the day ever come when he and others would be able to read them freely? He could spend hours in this room, poring over everything, but he knew there was no time for that. The missing people had to be found and restored as soon as possible. If they were in a Story world, they might not even be all in the same one. Still, as sketchy as it was, it was the only lead he and Ahiru had. They had to follow up on it.

He heaved a sigh, turning away from the books. "We should start now," he said.

Ahiru nodded. "Um, are you sure you're okay with this, Autor?" she could not refrain from asking.

He raised an eyebrow. "What do you mean?"

"Leaving the books and all," Ahiru said. "I know you wanted to look at them longer."

"Yes, well, we can't have everything we want," Autor returned. "Especially if something critical needs to be taken care of instead." His voice lowered. "But maybe someday . . ."

He could not resist a final look at the books as he stepped into the main room. Ahiru scurried after him, glancing back at them herself before looking to Autor again.

"Maybe the Bookmen will decide everyone can look at the books when they get back," Ahiru suggested.

Autor sniffed. "That is highly unlikely. If anything, they'll probably be more determined to keep everyone out." He glanced to the small book in his hand. "But we're taking this with us in any case. I need to look it over more closely. There's probably other things in it that will help us with what we need to do."

"Yeah, maybe," Ahiru said. "I guess if you wanted, you could make a copy of it or something. Before you give it back, I mean."

Autor certainly wanted to, but he did not know if he would get the chance. "Maybe," was all he said. He looked to the shelves in the main room. "Let's browse through these. If the townspeople are in a Story, it could be one that's for sale here."

Ahiru nodded. "Okay," she said.

It was certainly not as time-consuming of an effort, but there were still problems. Ahiru was not very familiar with what books were popular, so she continually had to hold up her choices for Autor to see and approve of before searching through them. And the more they looked, the more other worrisome thoughts began to plague her mind.

"Neither of us know everyone in town!" she cried at one point. "Maybe there'll be some people in a Story but we won't know it because we won't know them!"

Autor could not deny that she had a point. "It would help if there are illustrations," he said. "That is, as long as the people remain dressed in what they were wearing here. If they put on the clothes similar to those in the Stories, it would probably be hopeless."

He realized now that he had been imagining the Kinkan townspeople as playing major roles in the Stories and altering them almost beyond recognition. But what if they were merely extras in a large crowd scene? How would he and Ahiru ever find out?

He paused, taking out the journal again and examining the pages. Unfortunately, there was no information on how the victims of the previous incident had been found.

"Autor!" Ahiru cried without warning.

He nearly dropped the book. "What is it?" he asked, looking up with a start.

"Look!" Ahiru hurried over to him, a large volume held awkwardly in her hands. "This story talks about Miss Ebine!"

"The restaurant owner?" Autor frowned, closing the journal to turn his attention to the book Ahiru was holding out. Sure enough, the characters were dining at Ebine's restaurant. There was even an illustration depicting the scene.

"What book is this?" he wanted to know.

Ahiru turned the book over to see the title. "_Hansel and Gretel_!" she reported in shock. "Wait a minute, does that mean Miss Ebine is playing the witch?"

"It does look that way, doesn't it," Autor frowned. "I wonder if she has her memories. Drosselmeyer didn't say whether those other people's identities were intact."

Ahiru shuddered. "So she really might think she's the witch?" she said in horror.

"She might," Autor said. "Or maybe her presence has completely altered the story." He smirked. "Maybe Hansel and Gretel decided to dine there instead of at the witch's candy house."

Ahiru frowned. "But . . . that would be a good thing, wouldn't it?"

"It might mean the witch could go on capturing and eating children," Autor said. "Hansel and Gretel were the ones to defeat her. The other children, not being meant to do so, likely would not be able to overthrow her."

Ahiru cringed. "That's awful!" she proclaimed. "And now we need to somehow get in there. . . ."

Autor nodded. "If my deductions are right, we should be able to access the portal to the world of Stories from the clock Drosselmeyer built," he said. "From there, hopefully it won't be too hard to find the entrance to that particular Story."

In spite of his misgivings about this venture, he could not help feeling a bit of excitement as well. Part of him was still fascinated by the concepts of being able to experience stories firsthand. Today he had learned things about Stories and Story-Spinning that he had never known. And it looked like in the course of rescuing everyone they would both be learning more.

"We'll take that book with us too," he determined. "If the storyline has been changed, we should be able to learn about it from there."

"Are we leaving now?" Ahiru wondered.

"No," Autor said. "Ebine can tend to her guests for a while longer. That should keep her happy enough while we see what other worlds we'll need to visit."

Ahiru gave a slow nod. "Okay," she agreed.

Closing the book and holding it in one hand, she continued to investigate the shelf.

It did not take long before they had added quite a few other books to the pile. Both of them surveyed their work with mixed feelings.

"How can we really take all of these with us?" Ahiru worried.

Autor sighed. "We can't," he admitted. "We'd be too bogged down. But at least we'll make a list and see if we can pick up on the Stories' major changes. Then we'll gather some supplies and leave." He took a small notepad and a pencil out of his pocket and began to write down the names of the books and the people within them.

Ahiru opened the top book, which Autor had placed on the stack, and browsed through it. "There's some really weird stuff here," she said.

Autor glanced over at her as she skimmed the copy of _Rumpelstiltskin._ "There is," he said. "But the most ironic book is the next one down."

Ahiru blinked. "Huh?" She looked at the cover of the current top book on the pile. Her eyes widened in shock.

The title it bore was _The Nutcracker and the Mouse King, by E.T.A. Hoffmann._


End file.
